Kick It Up, Boy
by RavingBabbit
Summary: Because that was the only way he'd ever spread his legs for a Neanderthal.


**Kick It Up, Boy**

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><p><strong>glee_angst_meme: Prompt: Kurt is at McKinley (set before he went to Dalton) and after cheerios he needs to shower and change, however when he comes back to his locker all his clothing has been stolen and replaced with a dress and woman's underwear.<strong>

**Up to anon how he handles it but would prefer if he does end up wearing the girl's clothing out of there. Whether he tries to do so as like it doesn't bother him and breaks down at home or can't even get out of the school before crumbling is up to anon.**

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><p>He could hear Mercedes in his head, speaking for him. <em>Oh hell to the naw.<em>

"Really cretins? Really?" Kurt shivered in his towel as he glanced around the locker room as though expecting monsters to lunge at him from the shadows. Because whoever had picked out these clothes for him had to be monsters. Kurt couldn't look at the dress without wanting to gouge out his own eyes with the non-coordinated Bargain bin high heels waiting for him. There was no way he was putting on the G-string. He'd only worn such a thing once for "Bad Romance" but the dress had demanded it, honestly. And his G-string hadn't had pink sequins that would dig into the worst place ever.

Instead, he stretched the G-string across Karofsky's usual locker and washed his hands with steaming hot water. He wouldn't put it past the jocks to floss their cracks with the underwear before forcing it on him, because, you know, nothing gay about that, at all.

Where had they thrown his unif- okay, not okay, ew. He would come back for them tomorrow, with gloves and a trash bag right to the dry cleaners, Pillsbury-esque.

Fortunately, he had a suitable change of clothes- oh fuck fuck fuckering of all fucks. No he didn't. He'd been slushied three times that day, so he'd fully run out of reserves in his locker. This had been premeditated. Kurt spent ten minutes glaring at the baggy floral monstrosity as he thought about pimping his ride with a closet and a portable privacy screen.

He liked the idea better and better, as he put off the moment that he would absolutely have to slide the dress over his head to walk to his car.

Kurt reminded himself that it could be worse if it hadn't happened after Cheerios practice. This could have happened to him after gym when his peers roamed the halls. However, he would have counted on Mercedes and Tina to have his back, or a pair of running shorts. After tamping down disturbing images of himself attired in ghetto fabulous and neon goth attire, Kurt sucked it up and put on the damn dress. The shoes were three shades of ugly, so he'd have to go barefoot.

Kurt thanked the gods of fashion that he had left his messenger bag with his keys and phone in his hallway locker (since the humidity was very bad for the fabric). With tension between his shoulders, Kurt padded out of the locker room, his head swiveling constantly in directions that he sensed the most danger. He kept the wet towel in hand, ready to snap it like a whip. He needed to go around two dimly lit corners, where he could be ambushed.

Extremely conscious of the draught around his nether regions, Kurt bit his lip and tried to suppress the graphic, rape-y images flashing through his mind. He knew that gang-banging the cheerleader was a reoccuring motif in the sex industry, and he really hoped that he wasn't being set up for a re-enactment.

Contrary to what the heteros thought about him, Kurt was not thinking about dicks every second of the day. Otherwise, his cheeks would clash with half his wardrobe all the damn time. No, Kurt was a man who desired companionship, romance, commitment, not humiliation or danger or this fear that dried up his mouth and rattled his teeth. He was cold with terror. Vulnerable.

This was just plain not funny.

After Kurt went around his first dark corner, he released one-tenth of the breath he'd been holding. Thought about if his dad would buy it if Kurt said that the entire club was running a contest on who could throw on clothes worse than Rachel's.

The towel was taut between his hands as he walked exactly down the middle of the hall where the fluorescent lights pooled the brightest. Every second, he fully expected to be shoulder checked into a bunch of lockers, or worse, an open locker. Kurt didn't understand why the person who "designed" the dress would incorporate so much volume at the top and so little length in the skirt. He almost regretted not shoe-horning himself into the G-string, if it would shield him from the absolute nakedness he felt with the dress floating up his thighs.

As much as Kurt admired the diversity of women's fashion, he decided that he was better off as a boy. Having to feel naked with clothes on must really suck for a girl.

With a newfound appreciation of his sexual identity, Kurt rounded the next corner. He almost sobbed in relief when he caught sight of his locker. Still, he was cautious. At the end of the hall was the boy's bathroom, and the door was hidden by an expanse of wall big enough to hide three dudes. He'd used that nook himself to duck out of sight.

Kurt padded to his combination lock, put his back to the adjacent locker, and flicked his eyes left and right in-between twisting in the numbers. The wrench of his door echoed eerily into the shadowed spaces, and holy crap, he was freaked.

With his back firmly against the metal, Kurt grabbed his messenger bag first, ready to bolt with it at the first sign of movement. He then pulled out his coat and he cinched it closed tighter than he normally would have. He almost cried when he saw the pair of Converses in his locker. The shoe laces were neon pink and lime green; Tina wouldn't mind. After a second thought, Kurt took the bottle of hair spray with him, knowing how much it stung the eyes.

"If there's a god out there, please just let me get to my baby," Kurt muttered. Over and over. He paused just before leaving the front entrance of the doors. Whoever had taken his clothes had planned it well enough that he was actually wearing the dress. It was terrifying to realize that there was a thinker amongst enemy ranks.

So Kurt went to the cafeteria and took the most circuitous route to the parking lot. His was the only car left. Kurt made a note to always park under a light. From far away, he could see that no one was lying in wait. At this point, he was running and running, not caring that his right side strained with the added weight of textbooks and that his arches were killing him without proper support.

Kurt only relaxed when he'd lunged into the driver's seat and locked all the doors. For once, he switched off the music. The can of hairspray rolled onto the passengers' mat.

It was dark by the time Kurt parked in the drive way. His heart sank because his wasn't the first one in.

Of course his dad would come home early, on all days.

Kurt heaved a gigantic sigh, brushed the hair out of his face... and after a long moment, he groped for the can of hair spray.

"Hey kiddo. Thought I'd surprise you." There was a large tin filled with pasta on the dinner table and loaves of Italian bread still in the bag. His dad hadn't looked at him, busy rummaging through the fridge for god-knows-what.

"Looks great, Dad! Gimme a moment," Kurt said, hurrying to his room before his dad noticed the floral skirt poking out of his coat. It would be a long time before Kurt stopped wearing trench coats after this.

Dinner was really good. Kurt had never forked so many carbs on to his plate in one sitting, and he made a note of how his Dad had eyed his portions approvingly. His dad told him a humorous story about a pair of out-of-towners, a guy and his wife who had been swindled into buying a car whose engine pretty much ran on sawdust and duct tape.

Well, that put his problems into perspective. Kurt happily tossed out the containers and heaps of napkins without commenting on the downsides of take-out and he finished a couple worksheets on the coffee table as he dad watched _World's Deadliest Catch_. It was a content, restful evening until Kurt got ready for bed. He stared at the hideous floral pattern pooled on to his carpet before kicking it under the bed.

_Tina: your shoes were begging me. I did not resist. :D BTW, _where_ did you find glow in the dark laces?_

_Cedes: thoughts on me installing a closet in my Navigator? I'm 50% sure that I could find a collapsible dressing room screen to match my upholstery, but Wal*Mart gives me hives..._

Kurt eventually dropped off to sleep with his phone to his ear. Mercedes and he had to have been soul mates in a past life or something, because she'd called him two seconds after he'd texted to her.

He'd almost forgotten about the stupid prank, until a bully shoved him inside a locker and threw in a crumpled ball of cloth and pink sequins.

"This is what you get for teasing me, Fancy."

Kurt froze as he thought about the hard glint in the bully's eye before the door banged shut.

Throwing up wouldn't work. Crying wouldn't work. So Kurt punched and punched the door that kept him boxed in, because he was a boy. While he was a boy into other boys, he did not get off on being manhandled or forced to dress a certain way. Under the corset and the ingenious color schemes, he was a boy.

He did the only thing he could do, by violently and angrily bruising his knuckles until the janitor let him out.

The physical pain was nothing compared to the realization that his tormentors had thought about him in a dress, him not wearing underwear, him in the dark hallways with no one around to hear him scream.

Tonight, he had Cheerios practice.

It was high time that he learned how to do high kicks at break-jaw speeds.

Because that was the only way he'd ever spread his legs for a Neanderthal.

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><p><strong>AN: **Don't own Glee.


End file.
